


I Fell, He Followed

by onyxmoon



Series: as good place to fall as any [2]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Daddy Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Magnus Bane, M/M, Protective Alec Lightwood, desperate times call desperate measures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 00:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18767566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyxmoon/pseuds/onyxmoon
Summary: He wants to see the wonder in Alec’s eyes when Magnus shows him the most breathtaking things and places on earth. He wants to feel the indescribable emotion and near painful heat curling in his stomach as Alec never looks at those things as intensively as he looks at him.He wants to be seen, down to every scar and dirty detail of his past.He wants to be accepted despite them.





	I Fell, He Followed

**Author's Note:**

> i. English still isn't my first language. I'm sorry for the mistakes, they're all my own.
> 
> ii. This will probably make no sense without reading the previous part first (but if you're not interested in that, I made a quick recap of it to the notes at the end).
> 
> iii. Holy moly, #malec wedding had me crying!

_Dirty hands, broken heart, beaten bones_  
_I guess you could call me a child of the underground_  
_I guess you could say that my weakness is why I've survided_

_\- Remember This, Abby S_

 

i.

_Present_

There’s not enough air.

His hands are trembling. Badly. Uncontrollably.

Magnus curls them into fists – hard enough for his nails to dig painfully into his palms – before relaxing them again. The shaking doesn’t subside.

He still has some adrenalin agitated violence left in his aching bones but it wouldn’t be enough, not against him.

_Anything but him._

Slightly hysteric, he despairs the fact that Alec is there with him.

He could take his father alone. Well, he couldn’t, but at least he should be the only one receiving the upcoming acrimony and long-fermented betrayal. He had faced it before. _He had survived it before._

He isn’t so sure he can escape it second time around.

He doesn’t want to die, but the idea of Alec facing the same fate feels far more unbearable than his own ridiculously immense fear of it. It was such an irrational thing anyway.

With all that he had seen, all he had been through, shouldn’t he be embracing the end at this point?

Yet Alec – courageous, passionate, endlessly devoted Alec – who has barely scratched the surface of life, has always seemed to be far more consent with the inevitability of death than Magnus. The perks of mortality, yes, but still.

The finality of it feels excruciating.

And more than that: the timing.

He has already made exquisite, tender, unforgettable memories with Alec, sure; so call him greedy, but _he wants more_. Magnus doubts that any amount of time could ever be enough.

He wants to dip into the bliss that Alec brings with every crooked smile, wants to feel Alec’s steady breath against his temple, to hear his bleary morning voice and kiss against his two-day stubble.

He wants to see the wonder in Alec’s eyes when Magnus shows him the most breathtaking things and places on earth. He wants to feel the indescribable emotion and near painful heat curling in his stomach as Alec never looks at those things as intensively as he looks at him.

He wants to be seen, down to every scar and dirty detail of his past. He wants to be accepted despite them.

He wants to tell Alec how sorry he is and how deeply he loves him.

He wants time.

Asmodeus still hasn’t moved any closer, simply watching. Yet, in the open beach, Magnus feels as cornered as ever, throat closing up. He had almost forgotten how those eyes felt on him.

Alec curls his warm fingers around Magnus’ wrist, quelling the tremble. It’s meant for comfort but all it does is remind Magnus of the situation he has led Alec into. How exposed they both were. How vulnerable.

“Oh, _anakku_ ,” Asmodeus says finally, the rich and low timbre of his voice chilling Magnus’ blood. “My clever, beautiful son. How have I missed you.”

Magnus doesn’t want to know. He exhales, feeling unsteady and powerless against the words. Asmodeus can certainly make himself center of everything with little to no effort.

“There is no need to look so distressed,” Asmodeus smiles wider and steps closer. Magnus fights the urge to jerk back. Alec’s grip tightens around his wrist. “I am not Azazel. Nor as cruel as he is. Not to you, at least.”

 _You are crueler_ , Magnus thinks briefly. _In this horrible, deceiving, manipulative way, you are much worse._

The pleading words are already on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them back down. He isn’t above begging, but he knows it will make no difference. If anything, it’ll make it worse.

He remembers how this plays out. Asmodeus barely ever physically inflicted pain on him. No, he had much more efficient ways to crawl under Magnus’ skin and make him shatter. He knew Magnus’ pressure points all too well, digging into those bruises shamelessly.

“How did you get out?” Magnus asks, quiet and blunt, throat dry so the question comes out with a weak rasp.

He curses himself for not picking himself up better than this. He should.

For Alec’s sake.

Asmodeus makes a reproaching noise in his throat. For their luck, it sounds more amused than disappointed.

That doesn’t necessarily say much, though; Asmodeus was much more skilled liar than Magnus could ever hope to be. Faces beneath faces, he was able to change his tone and expression like a mask.

“Oh, you wound me, dear,” his father continues to step closer, closer, _too close_ – “Does your heart truly hold no affection for me anymore?”

Magnus swallows. He can’t remember the last time he felt so young.

“Do you really want to make this so difficult?” Asmodeus adds, low, eyes growing a degree colder despite the burning color of them.

“No,” Magnus says slowly and stands up from where he’s been kneeling on the wet sand. “I’m sorry.”

Alec follows him, letting go of Magnus’ wrist but staying close enough for Magnus to feel his warmth through his jacket. Magnus desperately hopes that Asmodeus finds his presence interesting enough to leave no room for curiosity about Alec.

Alec isn’t – thank God – trying to draw any attention to himself. Still, Magnus needs to get Alec away. Out of the city, preferably out of the whole damn country – as far from Asmodeus as physically possible.

“Good to see that you are still holding to your manners. I’ve heard ill words from Azazel lately.” Asmodeus invades their space, thumb flicking against Magnus’ cheek before he pulls him into a warm embrace. “I feared that you had completely forgotten everything I taught you.”

Magnus stiffens under the unwanted touch, unable to keep his heart from pounding as his father holds him in his arms.

He can hear Alec breathing louder behind him and bites his lip, wishing that he had some way to signal Alec to go, _go now, walk away._

As if it wasn’t too late already.

As if Magnus hadn’t ruined the life of the only person he wanted to save more than anything.

He stays still; to the very moment Asmodeus leans away again, studying Magnus’ face with this twisted, distorted love glinting in his unglamoured eyes.

“We need time to catch up,” Asmodeus steps back and fixes the lapels of his suit. “Dinner it is. And he is coming with us,” he nods at Alec, expression deceivingly soft as he smirks, sharp canines glinting in the darkening evening.

Magnus’ stomach sinks.

* * *

   
ii.

_1600s, Batavia, Dutch East Indies_

> _Keep them hidden._
> 
> No matter how hungry you were, how cold, how exhausted. Keep them hidden.
> 
> They won’t understand.
> 
> Mother didn’t.
> 
> He pulls his knees closer against his chest.
> 
> It’s cold. When the sun descends behind the trees and cracked roofs, it’s always cold. He can warm himself when he focuses enough. Curls his thin arms tight around his knobby knees and asks for it. Pleads for it, begs for it, _prays for it_.
> 
> It doesn’t take all that, though. Usually it comes almost too easily, feeling like embers inside his bones, a low heat spreading through his aching muscles.
> 
> It’s not something he can understand. Where it comes from, how it’s controlled? All he knows is that it’s _alive_ inside him, coiling around his heart and bleeding into his thoughts. A wild animal that purrs inside his chest with such a low, vigorous timbre that his arms shake in the wake of it.
> 
> It’s more vicious than the beasts in the forest and he is terrified of it.
> 
> Of what it can do.
> 
> He doesn’t want to depend on it but does anyway, because what choices does he have? The warmth only stays as long as he keeps asking for it, a mumbled prayer against his cold and scraped knuckles.
> 
> At some point he usually falls asleep under the cracked stairs, no matter how hard he tries to stay awake.
> 
> If he’s lucky, rain wakes him up at some point. If he’s not, it will be difficult to move in the morning.
> 
> The aftermath is cold lips, stiff limbs, and low heartbeat.
> 
> Not everyone survived the night.
> 
> He pulls the massive coat tighter around his shoulders. It’s thick, but the seams were already becoming friable, letting the wind through.
> 
> In the ideal situation he’d sleep during the day and move through the night. He would, if only the houses weren’t locked so tight and the streets weren’t completely desolated from people. No one to steal from.
> 
> He wasn’t the only one out there. There were others, young and small like him, with dirty clothes and too prominent bones jutting through their thin skins. They moved in groups; one distracted, other stole.
> 
> He was desperate to join them at first but quickly understood to keep his distance.
> 
> They watched him with wide eyes that were too big compared to their skulls.
> 
> _A demon boy_ , he heard one of the older ones whisper once. _Don’t get too close._
> 
> And maybe it was the truth. His mother had thought so, too, and she had been too kind and beautiful to lie.
> 
> _The son of the devil will eat you alive if you get too close._
> 
> _Look how hungry it is._
> 
> _It’s starving._
> 
> And he was. He was so hungry that his insides ached; a hollow, trembling throb.
> 
> Still. Rule number one, keep them hidden.
> 
> No matter how starving you were, _keep them hidden._
> 
> Once – only once – he had made the mistake of revealing them. It had been at the very start when he hadn’t known the common tricks yet.
> 
> He had been hungry, so unfathomably hungry that it had been difficult to form words to ask, never mind to walk. He had been exhausted but scared to fall asleep. He didn’t want to end up like one of those children who didn’t open their eyes to the new morning.
> 
> So he had been begging. For food, for coins, for anything really.
> 
> Anything to end the aching clench of his stomach and the horrifying feeling of fading away.
> 
> One man had slowed down his pace, hesitated for the briefest moment. The smell that had drifted from his bag had been taunting. The man had glanced down at him – disgust clear in his narrowed eyes – then tightened his hands around his wealth.
> 
> He had grabbed the edge of the man’s coat with dirty, shaky hands, becoming louder. He wouldn’t need much, just enough to get on his feet again.
> 
> The man had stepped aside, pulled away so he had fallen on his knees, head suddenly swimming.
> 
> When he had finally found it in himself to open his eyes again, the man had visibly flinched. Then shouted. Violence had been shining from his bloodshot eyes, fear tangling with anger and making one inseparable emotion.
> 
> Same words as his mother had used.
> 
> Same as his stepfather.
> 
> Then the man had kicked him. To his stomach, to his face, to his thin arms that tried to cover all the breakable parts.
> 
> The animal inside him had snarled against the pain, its claws sinking into the ground, except it had been only his own bitten nails that scratched against the downtrodden sand of the road.
> 
> Something had cracked _inside_ him, and then something cracked _outside_ him.
> 
> The man burned.
> 
> The world had been on fire and all he could do was gasp air into his broken body. He had watched, horrified, mesmerized, before crawling away. He had staggered through narrow ways between the houses and hid under the deepest gap in cracked stone wall.
> 
> He hadn’t come out until the next morning.
> 
> _Never again_ , he had promised himself later as he catalogued all the places that had been beaten blue. They were sore, aching, some raw and oozing blood.
> 
> And worst of all, he was still hungry.
> 
> Did this man burn to his death, he never found out. He wasn’t sure he even cared.

* * *

   
iii.

_Present_

Magnus is the first one to step into his own apartment.

The familiar, spacious rooms feel cold now – alien even. Unlived even though it’s been only a matter of days.

Every cherished object and carefully chosen furniture he had once valued feel contaminated now, tarnished by the lingering memory of Azazel.

And now by his father.

Asmodeus is standing so close that Magnus can almost feel the threat of him like a solid pressure against his spine.

This had been his home, his safe ground which he had filled with personal and intimate reminiscences.

The violation is more brutal than he had expected.

“Cozy,” Asmodeus comments offhandedly as he steps past Magnus. He wanders through the living room and to the kitchen, shedding his overcoat while taking in the decor with indifferent and mildly evaluating gaze.

Alec’s dirty coffee cup is still standing on the kitchen island, forgotten there by the last rushed morning.

Magnus swallows. The cup feels oddly crucial evidence there, verifying his guilt, showing Asmodeus just how much he cared. That this _insignificant_ Nephilim shared his son’s bed and house and life. Magnus can imagine it in the tone of his father, disappointed and deceivingly caring.

He couldn’t let Asmodeus to figure it out.

He flinches as Alec bumps into him, making sure to take a few steps away to keep the distance between them. Alec’s outstretched hand hovers there for a second, a wounded confusion flashing briefly through the neutral appearance that couldn’t conceal all the anxiety.

Magnus wishes he could explain. Hopes from the deepest depths of his heart that Alec doesn’t hate him for this, if by some reason he never gets a chance to clarify his actions.

He is a selfish man but he won’t prioritize Alec’s love over Alec’s life.

Asmodeus pulls a chair for himself and sits down at the table. Three wineglasses and dishes of steaming soup appear on the wooden dining table, creamy and peppery aroma quickly filling the room.

“Well,” Asmodeus prompts as he pulls a cloth napkin out of nowhere and folds it over his lap with cultivated ease. “It’s rude to leave the elders waiting. You still like _pira caldo_ , right Magnus?”

“I think had too much of it back then,” Magnus confesses.

He sits down anyway, watches Alec mirror him across the table.

“Shame,” Asmodeus hums around mouthful of fish, then takes a sip of the wine to wash it down. “I remember how you devoured it in Argentina. You got new things to devour now, hm?”

It’s said with a sharp glance at Alec.

Magnus is incapable of swallowing down the panic. His father suspects, if he doesn’t already know.

There’s not much, if any time left to make amends.

“Actually,” Magnus fidgets with the silvery spoon, “I thought this was a family dinner. A little curious why you insisted on taking him along.” He nods at Alec.

Satisfied smile stretches across Asmodeus’ face. Magnus remembers all too well the pleasure his father took from inflicting distress like this.

“Why, my dear son? Would you like for me to get rid of him?”

Alec tenses.

“No.” Magnus’ voice breaks the slightest bit at the end. “No. Just – let him leave.” He considers for a second, then: “Please.”

Asmodeus draws his intense – and supposedly paternal – gaze on Magnus again.

He had known all along, Magnus realizes then. Probably before they even left the beach. He had simply enjoyed watching Magnus’ torment. Wanted to hear him confess.

“Leaving without a plausible excuse during dinner is alleged as rude, you should know,” Asmodeus chides him with deep and silky voice. There’s a malignant glint in his eyes. “It’s all–”

“–about the manners.” Magnus’ voice is barely above a whisper. “I know.” His eyes burn. “Please.”

Without breaking the eye contact, Asmodeus lowers his utilities.

There’s no warning, no voiced spell. The pocket realm where Asmodeus pulls himself and Magnus is so aligned with their own that the only evidence of them going anywhere is Alec’s sudden and complete stillness and the slight ripple in the air.

Time slows, bends for Asmodeus’ will.

Magnus makes a notable effort not to look at Alec.

“You implied that you weren’t comfortable sharing our conversations with him,” his father says, still feeding up to this ruptured pretence of theirs.

Magnus clears his throat. “Yes. Thank you.”

He feels unsure. Underdog again. Not many are able to force him through this wide scale of unwanted emotions in such a short span of time.

He isn’t exactly sure how to describe his relationship with his father besides _complicated_ and _poisonous_.

Definitely dangerous.

“Interesting,” Asmodeus leans back in his chair. The complacent smirk doesn’t leave his face. “I have to admit, this one I didn’t foresee. I expected many great things from you, _puer carae_ , but a Nephilim? Not like you at all, I dare to say.”

Magnus swallows compulsorily, quickly trying to decide if he should go on with his pathetic false front or just let it drop and hope that Asmodeus wasn’t particularly interested with this cat and mouse game either.

“You know what it means to keep up alliances,” he says. A politician’s answer.

“I didn’t know you took it so far that you felt compelled to take your associates into your bed.”

Magnus doesn’t answer. Attempting to deny it might just tip Asmodeus off from this very thin edge they were walking on. Lies were rarely the right way to deal with him.

Asmodeus isn’t smiling anymore. Magnus takes a swig of his semi-dry red wine.

“Does he satisfy you?”

He almost splutters his wine across the table.

If the stress wasn’t effectively inflicting him a gastric ulcer, he would probably have found some kind of hysteric humor in the situation.

“Well?” Asmodeus crosses his knees. “Does he pull same sounds from you as the boy at the forge did?”

Magnus makes a conscious effort to swallow the bitter liquid as slowly as possible. The time he buys with it is poorly spent, as he has no idea how to answer to his father.

He vaguely remembers the boy with burning eyes and dusty hair and the smell of melted steel.

It’s like he’s in the middle of some twisted version of an average chick-flick movie where the grumpy dad grills teenager for if they’ve brought any boys in their room.

Except, in this darker version, people could actually die.

Asmodeus makes a guttural sound in the back of his throat. Magnus can’t tell if he’s satisfied by how well he has Magnus cornered or if he’s simply growing frustrated.

“I let it happen back then. Don’t for a second think that you were skilled enough of a liar. You still aren’t.”

Magnus can only nod, despairing at the lack of choices he has.

“There’s nothing you can hide from me, you should know that by now,” Asmodeus continues. His gaze feels like a black hole, absorbing, defeating. “I let it continue merely because I knew it wouldn’t last. You were young and hungry for new experiences. But this–,” he lets a glimpse of his annoyance flash through, “–this feels different.”

There’s some inner urge to deny it all. Magnus suffocates it.

Asmodeus is relentless. “You care about him, don’t you?”

Magnus shakes his head, but it’s not for denial. “What difference would that make?” he asks.

“A great difference, I’m afraid. You are my flesh, I own you–,” Magnus’ stomach twists at the words, “–but from what it sounds like, he owns you, too. And I can’t have that. I don’t own _anything_ half. Least of all my own son.”

Magnus’ fingers twitch against the tablecloth. He is finding it unimaginably difficult to think.

Asmodeus stands up, wipes the corners of his mouth with the small piece of folded white linen. He walks behind Magnus’ chair slowly, giving him time for every movement to sink in.

The first caress of cold knuckles against the side of Magnus’ neck has him sharply wincing further from the touch.

A hand comes to rest on Magnus’ shoulder, heavy with intention that Magnus wants to know nothing about.  Fingers spread across his throat, thumb digging slightly under the curve of his jaw. With that only, Asmodeus guides Magnus to lean back against chair again.

“He will break you,” Asmodeus murmurs above him.

“He will not–”

“He will. Simply by dying.” The implication is squeezing around Magnus’ heart with painful vigor. “How easy it would be to break his spine? How many pieces would you like me to shatter it? We both know it’s the same amount of shards your heart would be in. Shall we count?”

Magnus’ heart is beating so fast that it’s bordering an ache.

He should have expected this.

“Your price,” Magnus gets the hoarse words out with minimal difficulties. “Name your price.”

Asmodeus’ smile is almost palpable. It leaves Magnus’ skin tingling. He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable but too terrified for Alec’s behalf to try to move any more than that. 

“Oh, anakku, my beautiful boy. The price is not in your hands to give anymore, it’s in his,” thumb digs deeper into the hollow under Magnus’ jaw, forcing him to look up at Alec. He hadn’t thought it would be in Asmodeus to be so bitter but here they are. 

“That feeble little thing doesn’t probably even know the value of the dedication he has so thoughtlessly stolen.”

An argument coats the tip of Magnus’ tongue. Alec hasn’t stolen anything. Magnus has given it to him, all that there is, freely.

He bites it back. Again.

“Lucky for you, I’m persuadable,” Asmodeus says and leans away. His touch leaves an invisible brand on Magnus’ skin. “Accept your seat in Edom.”

“I can’t,” Magnus chokes the words out before he can think better of it, “I can’t, not there–”

“You want an alternative? Fine.”

Asmodeus sits down on the table, takes a sip from Magnus’ glass this time. His eyes are revealing nothing.

Magnus waits with patience he doesn’t possess.

“Your magic. Freely given.”

There would be no reasonable options on the table, Magnus realizes with sinking heart. None. In zero scenarios he’ll be the one to walk out on top.

Two choices.

Only one takes him away from Alexander.

Something inside him howls in fear as he nods.

Asmodeus smiles, cups Magnus’ cheek and leans down to press a kiss against his forehead.

Magnus is distantly aware that he might not be recognizing the full expanse of the consequences of this decision yet, feeling oddly detached and fragile. His heart doesn’t feel like his own anymore, the pounding of it now phantom against his lungs and sternum.

“You will realize it, eventually,” Asmodeus tells him as he pulls Magnus’ up with a hold on his bicep.

Magnus follows him numbly, lets Asmodeus arrange him to the most spacious part of the kitchen. It feels a little like valediction, so he can’t keep his gaze from straying on Alec.

Fingers at his jaw force his eyes back to Asmodeus.

“I am the only constant thing in your life,” Asmodeus murmurs. Magnus doesn’t want to be reminded. “Everything else may fail you, but I will not.”

Then there’s cold mouth hovering over his and life exudes him in thick drops, unnaturally, like going against the upstream.

Magnus falls under the water.

* * *

   
iv.

_1600s, Batavia, Dutch East Indies_

> The grip around his wrist is too strong. It makes his bones creak together, bending until they are in the point of breaking.
> 
> He tries to yank himself free.
> 
> “Calm down.”
> 
> _No._
> 
> He doesn’t need to calm down, he needs to get away. He grinds his teeth together, uses all of his strength and body weight to struggle free from the man’s bruising hold.
> 
> _He has always gotten away before._
> 
> Panic swells in his chest. It’s thick, dark like the mud where his feet are slipping at, and it’s choking him. He can feel his heart in his throat. He seethes curses at first, then pleads, gasped, panicked, until he’s screaming, hoping it to be enough to distract the man.
> 
> His voice is shrill, loud enough to leave his throat aching from the high notes he hadn’t used for so long.
> 
> “Calm down,” the man repeats patiently, not sounding slightest bit hazed nor confused.
> 
> It only serves to grow the pulsing fear in his stomach stronger. He feels sick but he can’t tell why. Something about this man made his body go haywire, like the ocean gets frenzied from the moon.
> 
> “Shh, _anakku_.”
> 
> The animal is wakening again, lifting its head in the darkness. He doesn’t want to burn this man, too, doesn’t want to witness any more pyres like that, but the grip around his wrist _just doesn’t get looser._
> 
> The liquid heat is retreating from his fingertips, coiling tighter and hotter into the pit of his chest, preparing for the wave. The beast gnaws at his ribs, cracking the bones.
> 
> He can’t keep it in.
> 
> He waits for the flash of sharp canines. For fire.
> 
> It doesn’t come.
> 
> The scorching flames don’t swallow up the man in front of him, no. Instead, the upcoming pressure in his chest is forced back, stifled, suffocated. Not by him, though.
> 
> It feels like being denied air.
> 
> “Oh,” the man says. His voice is deep, sultry. Surprised. _Impressed?_
> 
> The grip around his wrist relaxes and loosens until it slips away.
> 
> He stumbles away, gasping, cradling his hand against his chest. His back hits the wall and he pushes against it but the cracked clay doesn’t recognize his distress and part from his way.
> 
> _He can’t breathe._
> 
> The man steps closer, hovering over him. He no longer has physical restraints on him, but his gaze is just as effective at pinning him down, keeping him curled against the wall. It’s intimidating – _dangerous_ , the voices whisper from the dirty wall – but in the midst of the void of his fear, he can’t help but feel slightly curious, too.
> 
> Is this it?
> 
> Is this where he dies?
> 
> He is making too much noise, nails scraping against the wall behind his back.
> 
> No matter how he despised the creature carved deep into his shoulder blades, it was all he had. The one thing that hadn’t betrayed him before.
> 
> The man’s face is unreadable; smoothened by an emotion he has never witnessed.
> 
> Nobody has ever looked him like that before.
> 
> Maybe he should just run. He is faster than most, knows the roads and shortcuts and the best places to hide.
> 
> He could make his way to south. To a different village if he had to. This man would never find him again.
> 
> “You are so special,” the man whispers, then. It’s said with such a soft delight that it’s making his head spin. This wasn’t how the situation was supposed to go. “So beautiful and rare and look how they have treated you.”
> 
> Where were the fists? The raging yells and clenched teeth? Where was the taste of mud?
> 
> Slowly, the man kneels down in front of him.
> 
> He stays still, doesn’t try to get away anymore. He considers it, just before the stranger cradles his face with something akin to tenderness, spiderlike fingers cupping his hollowed cheeks.
> 
> He is just so terribly confused.
> 
> “My beautiful boy,” the man says, low and pleased, “You don’t even know yet, do you? Just how remarkable you are.”
> 
> He is still terrified but the gentle hand feels too good for him to lean away. The last one who touched him with warmth like this was his mother.
> 
> “You will go high one day – higher than you ever think you can – but you will remember this moment.”
> 
> Oh, how cruel of the man to say things like that. Cruel and ignorant. If he only knew what he really was – what lived inside him – he wouldn’t say such things, wouldn’t even touch him like this.
> 
> The man sighs and slides a palm from his dirty cheek to the ragged collar of his shirt. The hand is big, warm, thumb pressing against his jugular.
> 
> “When you’re sitting on the throne, you will remember how this felt.”
> 
> He blinks rapidly and looks down, trying to ignore the bittersweet words.
> 
> “Look at me.”
> 
> He doesn’t, at first. His heart is still racing in his chest and it feels too hazardous at the moment to risk something as fundamental as eye-contact. Too exposing. He wasn’t in control. He could slip and the repercussion of that mistake isn’t something he wants to relive.
> 
> _Keep them hidden._
> 
> Warm fingers brush gently through the knots and dirt in his hair. The other hand of the man is curling around his bony shoulder. Both touches are gentle but the undertone is demanding.
> 
> “Look.”
> 
> He doesn’t dare to defy the man for the second time, so he looks.
> 
> The stranger watches him with intensity that builds new kind of pressure in his stomach and leaves his skin tingling. He squirms against the warm hands that hold him still, swallowing down the dry taste of dust.
> 
> The man smiles, something that’s both horrifying and beautiful at the same time, although he can’t tell what makes those white, bared teeth so threatening.
> 
> Then the man’s eyes bleed away.
> 
> The stiff color around pupils swelter, making way to the animalistic gold that glows lowly in the darkening evening.
> 
> Oh.
> 
> _Oh._
> 
> He is breathing even faster now, too shallow – the air keeps rushing out in short, dizzying puffs – because _they’re just like his._
> 
> Exactly like his.
> 
> “There you are,” the man smiles wider and exposes even more of his white teeth.
> 
> It’s all too similar to the panther that prowls at the edge of the forest, black as night, as if it had dipped into a lake of ink. Its canines gleam almost brighter than its eyes – eyes that hold some kind of mystic energy, a wisdom beyond its nature.
> 
> It’s precarious but not as much as it’s familiar.
> 
> His heavy breaths turn into sobs.
> 
> Ugly, wet, uneven sobs that he can’t control nor hold in anymore. His body is shaking violently, wrecked by his collapse. His eyes and lungs burn both alike.
> 
> He is confused. He is _relieved_.
> 
> Overwhelmed by the knowledge that there’s someone else like him.
> 
> He had been too much for his mother, but maybe he wouldn’t be the same burden to this sharp eyed stranger.
> 
> “It’s okay. You’re okay, _anakku_ ,” the man says gently, quietly, and pulls him closer. Warm lips press against his sweaty forehead, and he curls into the warmth, knowing the he shouldn’t, but god, he wants to have it.
> 
> _Please, let me have it._
> 
> “Never smother yourself like this again,” the man whispers against his hair, “It does no good to deny the hunger of a soul.”
> 
> He doesn’t know what to make of that, but it’s fine, because the arms around him are warm and strong, and finally, after straying for so long, he feels like he belongs.

* * *

  
v.

_Present_

Magnus wakes up gradually.

The first instinct he has is to curl up. His fingers scrape wearily at the wooden floor in vain hope to find something to pull over his frigid limbs.

_How can it be so fucking cold in here?_

Something brushes against his arm, then curls around his bicep. He shivers at the warmth that sinks into his skin but doesn’t quite reach his bones.

He feels empty, unable to draw the heat from his veins like he’s used to.

“–fuck.”

Magnus recognizes the quiet but heartfelt cursing. Alec’s voice always took a special edge when swearing.

Warm fingers move hastily against his chest, the base of his throat, left cheek. They never stay in one place long enough for Magnus to truly gather any warmth from the touch.

He makes a low noise in his throat and uncurls his arms in order to reach for Alec.

“Hey? Hey – can you open your eyes?”

Alec is sounding so painfully distressed, fear and relief bleeding heavily into his hoarse voice. Magnus is feeling precariously offbeat but he’s quite sure that there’s no threat here. It’s an intuition at most but he trusts it.

There’s something swelling in the back of his head; an urgent thought, almost like a wound.

He can’t tell what it’s about but this isn’t the time to unveil it. What feels more acute, at the moment, is this horrible, aching cold.

“Magnus? Magnus–”

He tries to create some calming noise in the back of his throat, but what comes out is croaky and breaks embarrassingly in the middle. Alec’s warm hand is brushing back his gelled hair before cradling the back of his head with exaggerated caution.

Magnus clears his throat and blinks his eyes open.

Alec seems to deflate above him, spine curving in.

There’s something wrong with him, Magnus realizes as he carefully sits up with Alec’s help.

Alec is paler than usual, eyes too bright – but there’s no blood, no visible bruises, no restriction in his movements. Nothing to suggest for any internal injuries, either.

“Hey?” Magnus says quietly. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

He is quite surprised that he can’t see his breath steaming in the air. It’s so indescribably cold that it most definitely should. It must be below fifteen degrees. He tries to sit up better, glue himself against Alec for body heat.

Somehow, Alec isn’t looking even the slightest bit bothered by the chilly temperature.

By other things, yes, perhaps.

“What did he do?”

Magnus blinks and pulls down the zipper of Alec’s jacket with stiff fingers. “Who?”

His question seems to push Alec into a whole new track as he’s suddenly looking even more disturbed than before.

“Your dad.”

The isolated wound in the back of his mind uncoils with sharp, violent backlash. The one that had been simmering just under the surface since he woke up.

Magnus isn’t sure what the sole reason for this uncontrollable shaking is anymore.

“Magnus?” Alec’s voice is urgent. Distant.

The realization is hitting hard.

His bones are simply bones now, fragile and breakable. His words hold no power, no matter what spell he’ll whisper into the air.

Uncontrolled panic is quickly growing in his chest, thundering, cutting out everything else. Magnus swallows the wave down and locks it tight – tighter than he has locked anything before, except maybe the memory of his mother.

The weight of this loss will drown him if he lets it.

“Cold,” he whispers.

Alec’s hands are roaming over Magnus’ shoulders, sides. “What did he do to you?” A small pause. “Are you in pain?”

“No.” Not a lie. Not a truth either. Magnus clears his throat again. “No, it’s the cold.”

Alec halts. “Cold?”

“I’m cold.”

Alec doesn’t look exactly relieved but allows Magnus to inch closer and push his jacket more open.

They’re both grown men so it’s remarkably impractical and slightly uncomfortable at first, long limbs knocking together, legs bent and rearranged unsuccessfully before Magnus finally turns and settles his back against Alec’s chest, Alec’s thighs bracketing his hips.

It wouldn’t take much to get up from the damn floor and go to somewhere more comfortable, on a couch for an example, but neither of them suggests anything of sort.

Magnus leans backward, trying to get his back glued against Alec’s chest. It still doesn’t suffice. All the fabric between them allows Magnus only a tepid memory of what he needs.

“It’s not–” _enough_. He sighs, squirms, and pushes back harder. “Can you take your shirt off?”

Alec clearly hesitates – his body a tense line behind Magnus’ – before he leans back to shrug off his jacket. The black t-shirt goes next.

Magnus unbuttons his own shirt hastily, shaky fingers fumbling with the small pearly buttons.

It’s dawning to him, suddenly, that he might have chosen wrong after all.

Alec doesn’t know yet. Magnus isn’t sure why he’s feeling so hesitant about telling him. Maybe because it might actually change something between them. He knows that Alec doesn’t love him for his magic, of course, but to be real about it; it is – _was_ – an immense part of him.

If Alec decided that this would be too much, it would all be for nothing, his sacrifice wouldn’t mean – fucking – shit.

Asmodeus’ first offer would’ve at least allowed him to keep his magic. And the seat in Edom? He would’ve found a way to trick himself out of it, sooner or later. And if not…well, he’s adaptable, no matter how specified his taste is.

If had he chosen differently, he would’ve lost certainly only one thing.

Now he risked both, his magic _and_ Alec.

His hands begin shake even more so he rips the last three buttons with sharp yank.

For all his fears of Alec rejecting him because of his demonic heritage, this was even worse.

At least as a warlock he had been _something_.

Alec’s bare skin feels almost feverish against Magnus’ when he finally gets to push back again. Alec, his ever sweet Alexander, reaches for their shirts and spreads them on Magnus’ shoulders and chest before wrapping his arms around him. Trying to offer help and comfort without even knowing what’s happening.

_It’s okay, he won’t leave you._

“Magnus,” Alec says after a while. “Did you know, you got – your eyes, they’re showing? Not that I mind, just – I have to call Izzy and Jace. It’s okay if you want to hide them, I know you’re not comfortable around people like that.”

Magnus swallows, contemplating on how to tell Alec that he _couldn’t._

* * *

   
vi.

_1600s, Batavia, Dutch East Indies_

> _Asmodeus._
> 
> It takes some time for him to learn how to pronounce it right; in old language the name twists and withers on his tongue like a snake. The man carries his name with almost arrogant pride, thick syllables bordering something ancient as he speaks them aloud.
> 
> Most people do not recognize the name.
> 
> The ones that do, pale at the mere mention of it.
> 
> It’s a clear sign of danger – _go, leave_ , something inside him begs, quietly tugging his at heart – but he stays anyway.
> 
> _Where would he go?_
> 
> Asmodeus teaches him often, almost every day. How to read, to write. The steadiest way to hold a knife and the most fatal places to attack a man with it. He tells him that only fools rely on one strength only. He teaches how to construe intentions from man’s eyes and expressions. To be patient, unpredictable, and most of all, cunning.
> 
> He teaches how to control the beast that purrs inside his chest.
> 
> He teaches how to unleash it.
> 
> “In many situations it might be your only ally. You need to trust it. Let it out, dive with it.”
> 
> And it’s true; it feels easier to breathe when he’s not constantly trying to smother it down. As he embraces it, it grows, feeling more and more like a limb he never knew he missed and less like treacherous cobra that’s gonna sink its poisonous fangs into his thigh.
> 
> He is still aware of it all the time, how it’s breathing in tandem with him, but he isn’t afraid of it anymore. Not most of the time, at least.
> 
> “It’s a part of you. Never deny it.”
> 
> He learns quickly, or so he wants to believe. Asmodeus looks proud, yet he keeps pushing him further and further against his own limits.
> 
> “You need to be smarter, anakku. I can see everything in your eyes. Hide it or you’ll lose the advantage.”
> 
> “Yes, ayah.”
> 
> He never defies Asmodeus.
> 
> One day, he finds a tiger cub, deep in the forest. It’s alone in the middle of mud and leaves, so young that it can barely even walk. Or so weak.
> 
> There’s no sign of the mother. That didn’t mean it wasn’t close.
> 
> He hides behind the trees, waits for couple of hours, until the sun starts to set.
> 
> The forest stays quiet.
> 
> Mothers didn’t abandon their children for so long. Not even animals.
> 
> He throws a rock near the cub, watches how its trembling head turns to the sound. Its eyes are huge, dark like its mud soiled fur. Nothing else moves, though. The mother doesn’t prowl from between the trees so he goes to pick up the small creature.
> 
> It looks pitiful in his arms, small and trembling. Its mouth opens, but instead of roar comes only a small squeal. He curls it tighter against his chest, hoping that his heartbeat resembles something like safety.
> 
> Back at his father’s house, Asmodeus looks down at the animal, then at him. He sighs and shakes his head.
> 
> “You shouldn’t waste your time on something so weak, anakku. Look at it, it’s starved.”
> 
> _So was I_ , he thinks. _So was I and you told me to remember._
> 
> Asmodeus tells him to get rid of it. He agrees with bowed head, promises with steady voice: _yes, ayah, you won’t see it again_. Then he walks out, taking the cub with him.
> 
> His heart beats painfully in his chest, so loud that he fears it to echo through the walls. He waits for Asmodeus to call him back with that dark, colorless voice he rarely let him hear; the one that promised death. The cub curls closer against his chest, making a little, broken whines.
> 
> That’s the first lie he tells Asmodeus.
> 
> He is so afraid that it makes him physically sick, to the point where he dry-heaves every time before meeting his father. He sweats and fidgets, drinks water from the banner, waits for it to calm his fried nerves.
> 
> He doesn’t let it show, though. Whenever he steps through the doors into Asmodeus’ luxurious room, there’s no emotion in his face. He breathes through it, slowly, and looks Asmodeus in the eye.
> 
> “You are quicker to learn than I remembered,” Asmodeus says, weeks later.
> 
> He smiles at the praise but doesn’t let it reach his eyes, forcing the calm and unreadable veil on his face to stay as clear as possible.
> 
> If given even the slightest opportunity, Asmodeus would detect his guilt.

* * *

  
vii.

_Present_

The blanket around his shoulders doesn’t do much. Yet he grips on it for Alec’s sake, Alec who keeps glancing at Magnus with his hazel eyes so worried and unconvinced.

He hasn’t told any of them yet.

Slumped on the couch, he tries to find enough motivation to go and pour himself a drink. Four fingers. The strongest vodka he owns.

He keeps subconsciously searching the missing pressure inside his ribs, aching to feel the current of it in his spine again.

Trying to fill the hollow, out-carved, raw void in his chest with alcohol sounds like magnificent idea at the moment.

“Your temperature is completely normal,” Isabelle had told him after a quick – and moderately forced – inspection. In the end Magnus had swallowed his bruised pride and reluctantly accepted the check-up for Alec’s sake.

He is quite sure Alec wouldn’t have allowed none of them leave before having Magnus to yield for it.

Such a sweet, yet sometimes impractically stubborn soul, his Alexander.

Magnus keeps his head low while Isabelle works around him. Avoiding eyes like that makes it feel all more like the defeat it is.

This isn’t him; he has broken wills with only his eyes before, held his chin high, kept his shoulders relaxed, holding effortlessly the power with his character only – he doesn’t cower like this.

“You aren’t hypothermic. No concussion or brain damage. You’re blood pressure is excellent. Pulse, oxygen-saturation, it’s all fine,” she lists. “Physically, I think there’s nothing wrong with you.”

Isabelle is lovely, caring like her brother. She truly tries to find the reason for Magnus’ condition.

Alec isn’t satisfied with her coming up empty-handed. He goes unwillingly as Jace quietly urges him into other room.

Magnus smothers down the guilt. He knows that the chills are only withdrawal symptoms from his magic being so brutally taken from him, but he isn’t ready to confess the true reason for his shaking hands and unsteady behavior just yet.

Willingly given, Asmodeus had said.

A good way to make it sound painless.

Although, at the given moment, Magnus hadn’t spared the possibly discomfort even a single thought.

He tries to focus on that now, on why he did it – who he did it for.

He stands up, the quilt falling from his shoulders. He doesn’t bother to pick it up, instead heads straight to the liquor cabinet. The first glass stumbles from his hand, falling to the floor. It cracks but doesn’t break. Magnus curses in Latin.

The noise draws Alec from the kitchen, followed closely by Jace.

 Jace, immediately after seeing that everything was fine, begins to pull Alec back to the kitchen.

“I said cut it,” Alec’s tone is more than biting. He doesn’t budge.

Jace seems adamant on continuing whatever hushed conversation he and Alec had been having in the cover of other room. They speak quietly, but not quietly enough.

“He surely has places to go – warlock contacts or something.” Jace presses. “It would be better option for everyone if–”

“I don’t wanna hear it.” And if Jace sounds stubborn, the steel in Alec’s voice in downright unmovable.

Alec is going to win this one, Magnus can already tell.

“Come on, Alec, don’t be an ass. I’m just saying, with Penhallow breathing so closely to your neck, I think it would be wise to avoid any kind missteps that could give her–”

“Missteps?” Alec squares his shoulders, staring Jace with cold eyes. “You wanna talk about missteps?”

Magnus pours the glass full to the rim, some of it spilling over his shaking fingers. He downs it with one go, desperately wishing he were saved from the humiliation of hearing this conversation.

He hates to feel like a burden, that people felt any need to protect him. And knowing that it’s going to get considerably worse after his revelation, he needs all the liquid courage he can get.

The cranberry vodka burns in his throat.

Another full glass goes down before he throws the glass over his shoulder.

This time it shatters, effectively quieting down the low argument between Alec and Jace. Magnus uses the moment with heavy heart.

“Alexander,” he says without turning around. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

* * *

  
viii.

_1630s, Batavia, Dutch East Indies_

> It feels good.
> 
> He isn’t quite sure if it’s supposed to feel good.
> 
> The satisfaction spreading in his chest tells a different story. So does Asmodeus.
> 
> His guilt doesn’t let him to enjoy it, though.
> 
> They had hurt him, yes. They had wronged him in every way possible, kicked him when he was down, denied him food, denied him life. They tried to burn him, hang him.
> 
> It was about integrity, right? The impartiality and equivalence of the world. They should pay for what they did.
> 
> He presses his knee harder against the man’s stomach. The sharp edge of the man’s armor digs painfully into his kneecap. Hands fumble against his thigh, trying to shove him off. There’s no leverage.
> 
> He tilts his head and curls his fingers in the air. The man chokes, the pressure around his windpipe cutting away the little what was left of his airway.
> 
> He remembers this man.
> 
> The hands that had scraped against his legs go gradually lax. Only then he leans back again and eases the pressure.
> 
> The man coughs, gulping in air, eyes bulging from their sockets.
> 
> “ _Anda putra setan sialan_ –” the man gasps the curses at him, trembling with rage and well hidden fear. Soldiers always disguised that well.
> 
> “ _Jadilah bijak, kumohon_ ,” he replies quietly.
> 
> The man reaches for the knife on the floor next to his hip. He doesn’t get to it, hand twisting into an unnatural position above his head. Scream cuts through the empty room.
> 
> “Where is it?”
> 
> The man tries to spit at his face. It misses, generously.
> 
> “I know what you are,” his face is constricted with pain, “I know, iblis, you will burn in the fires of hell. You and all your kind–”
> 
> “My kind?”
> 
> “They call you the son of the devil. They know what you are.”
> 
> He thinks about it, afterwards.
> 
> Some people call him the son of devil. His father calls him divine. Between those, he isn’t sure where he truly lands.
> 
> Asmodeus cups his face when he comes back, wipes the blood from his cheek. The thin leather armor he wears seems to weight as much as his heart at the moment. He is exhausted.
> 
> There’s a curious hue in Asmodeus’ eyes when he searches for his gaze. For the first time in years, it feels too much to handle.
> 
> He looks down, instead.
> 
> Strong fingers grasp his jaw, forcing his face up. Asmodeus’ eyes are glowing. A fear that he hasn’t felt for a nearly decade is creeping up his throat. He feels like a child again, certain that his guilt is visible in his eyes.
> 
> “These people, they don’t understand your power, your beauty. They fear it,” Asmodeus says, lowly, “They are afraid that we can challenge their gods.”
> 
> He nods, numb.
> 
> He isn’t sure if he wants to challenge gods.

* * *

  
ix.

_Present_

Days crawl by. Then weeks.

The first two or three days slide by without him really catching a hold of anything, hours merging together.

All of his energy goes to the task of finding his father. They scour both his apartment and several miles of the beach as well as the original warehouse, only to end up shamefully empty-handed.

Magnus had expected that, yet he had naïvely hoped for some sort of trace.

He doesn’t even know what he should do when they actually find Asmodeus. Maybe it’s a bridge to be crossed when they should reach it.

 _That bridge is already burned;_ the darkened, renounced part of him breaths.

He can’t go back to his apartment, compromised as it is. The wards are in shards, he knows that without even the ability to verify it.

Catarina isn’t willing to recreate them, not yet at least. Magnus understands and doesn’t push. Alec, for his part, does push. He’s forgiven since he doesn’t know the reasons.

It’s always a risk, branding such a precarious place with personal magic.

Besides, against Asmodeus, it might be futile work anyway.

They make only one visit back to retrieve Magnus’ belongings. With only two bags to fill, he finds it immensely difficult to choose the most important items. Every single one of them looks equally immaterial and lonely at the bottom of Alec’s black waterproof duffle-bag.

It’s not the individual things but the entirety.

Funny, he had never thought himself to be so dependent of his apartment.

He has achieved barely anything by the time Alec has methodically packed up his toiletries, some socks and underwear, one pair of black snakeskin boots, and Magnus’ favorite porcelain coffee cup.

He keeps drifting through the quiet rooms, feeling twitchy, fidgeting; grasping items only to push them back into shelves and drawers.

Nothing is important enough, yet everything is.

How is he supposed to choose?

Based on importance? On sentimental value?

Alec doesn’t rush him. Magnus is thankful for that.

After several minutes of aimless wandering he finds himself in his walk-in wardrobe, trying not to think too much as he dispassionately crams a portion of his clothes into the bag, realizing only afterwards that he can’t smoothen away the wrinkles as easily as before.

It’s gonna be arduous job to straighten cotton.

Were he supposed to have to iron them? _As if._ He’ll use a dry cleaning.

After the clothes he moves to the bookshelf, fingers skimming over the worn out spines and bindings. With heavy heart he throws in some of his most valued spell-books, horribly aware that he isn’t able to use them. Perhaps never again.

He doesn’t hesitate when he comes to the book of children’s tales Ragnor had given him after their gruesome trip to Singapore.

Jewelry, some of them enchanted. Black nail polish. The silver daggers, wrapped in soft leather.

A full bottle of vodka. Two engraved shot-glasses.

Four small vials of poison, two ward potions, salves for healing, antidotes.

For last he retrieves the wooden box from his study, bottom drawer of the bureau. Alec’s eyes follow him as he places it on top the least brimming bag. Magnus ignores the heavy gaze.

He isn’t ready to go.

As they’re standing in the doorway, Alec asks if there’s something more he wants get before leaving. It’s a subtle approval for Magnus to stall some more if he wishes. Magnus considers for several seconds, wondering how the hallway can look so cold despite its warm and earthy colors.

It’s a risky business, he thinks wearily, building home in one place.

Even riskier to build one within a person.

He turns without a word, fingers tightening around the handle of his bag.

It gets worse when they arrive back to the Institute. The cold and clinical ambience has never bothered him in such an inescapable way before.

He has spent numerous hours inside the stone walls of it after all – even more now because of Alec – and sure, he has always felt a certain amount of exclusion and resentment, but this quiet hostility is new.

Nobody is looking at him as they walk through the entry and two levels up to Alec’s quarters, yet Magnus is acutely aware of all the concealed attention that’s focused on him.

_Yes, please behold – bastard son of the prince, heir of Edom. A defunct warlock._

Perhaps Catarina would be willing to accommodate him for a while if things should turn worse.

Alec’s room is ascetic. There’s no other way to describe it. Magnus has always felt a little unwelcome in the impersonal bedroom which only colors were various shadows of grey and blue so dark that it neared black.

He drops his bags on the corner of Alec’s room but doesn’t unpack them.

It’s Alec’s room, Alec’s life – not some stranger’s – yet he feels like an intruder.

_That’s probably because you are._

Anxious, insecure weight draws his stomach into aching knots. He knows that this uncertain, vulnerable feeling is tied to the loss of his magic, yes, but the immense weight of the situation still manages to surprise him. He knows he is superfluous now, unwanted here – or anywhere else.

He tries not to think how Alec fits into his life so seamlessly and how he can’t seem to adjust into Alec’s.

Too many ragged edges, it must be.

Another week goes by and his bags stay in the corner, occupying as little space as possible. Only his toothbrush and make-up have found their way to the bathroom, some clothes splayed on Alec’s hard wooden chair. It’s not much, admittedly.

Isabelle buys him contact lenses.

They’re dispensable ones, dark brown. Color similar of the glamor he used before.

She says that it’s for him to be able to go outside freely.

She doesn’t say it’s because his unglamoured eyes make people uncomfortable but Magnus knows it’s bigger half of the truth.

The first time he watches himself on mirror with one lens on place, he wants to scratch the piece of plastic from his eye. Wants to claw his eyes off, too, hating the golden hue and animalistic pupils that show exactly what he’s lacking. Wants his magic back just so he can wreck the quiet, pristine bathroom around him.

He ignores the itch and draws in a deep breath before hiding his other eye behind a lens.

It becomes a part of his morning routine but not for even one second he forgets they’re on.

His eyes are dry and slightly red-rimmed when he takes them off for nights, but he gets used to it.

The liquid eyeliner isn’t really a challenge even without the magic. It takes time, yes, but he has steady hands and time – it’s not like he sleeps much anyway.

It’s somewhat bearable until the day he looks at himself in the dusty window reflection and sees the smudged edge on his left eyelid, realizing that he can’t fix it. That he has to turn back to the others without chance to repair it, his make-up remover and eyeliner both in the bottom of his bag at Alec’s room.

Small thing perhaps, yet it leaves him feeling horrifyingly fractured, even more than before.

He switches to the kohl after that. Thick, bold layers.

If he makes them sloppy enough no-one will see the unintentional smudges.

Alec worries, Magnus can tell. He hates to know that he’s the source of those sad, adamant eyes. He tries to keep up the front, _oh_ how he tries, but without his magic his shields feel thinner than ever. Clothes and thick make-up are not enough to camouflage how empty and hollow and so fucking cold he feels.

Alec promises him they will find Asmodeus.

Magnus says _it’s fine_ and _thank you_.

He doesn’t want to put pressure on Alec. This was his choice. And even though it’s tearing him apart, if forced to face the same question again, he wouldn’t probably end on any different decision. Which only makes it worse. That he can’t even regret it properly.

He regrets the events that led to the loss of his magic, yes, but he doesn’t regret choosing Alec.

He only hopes Alec won’t regret choosing him. It’s a prayer he recites every night before falling into shallow sleep.

But still, the situation isn’t Alec’s responsible to fix. Yet he keeps putting too many resources on finding Asmodeus.

With normal protocol – as Asmodeus isn’t causing any destruction – they should leave only one active unit to track him but otherwise leave it, wait for him to emerge. Magnus knows this, thanks to Isabelle.

He tries to make his smiles less forced, tells Alec that it’s okay, that he shouldn’t jeopardize his position for this, for Magnus (– _even though he wants Alec to, but he can’t ask for it, can’t be so fucking selfish_ ).

Alec, in turn, pleads him to relax, to get comfortable. _You need to sleep,_ he says, _Magnus, come on_.

Magnus promises Alec the same thing every time: that he’ll try. Yet he can’t find it in himself to settle.

He feels restless, trapped.

He tries not to think what he can’t do and focus on what he can (which isn’t much).

It would be good for him to sleep, yes, he knows, but can’t. He blames the sheets; too rough, chafing, the linen hard. It’s a lie and not even very good one. The bed seems foreign and the only time he feels even somewhat at ease is when Alec presses his hands against his bare skin, molding his tall body around Magnus’.

Most nights he wakes up covered in cold sweat, feeling Asmodeus’ icy hands ghosting against his throat in an awfully intimate way that makes him want to retch.

The shaking doesn’t subside until he untangles himself from Alec’s lax arms and heads to the shower, the steaming water slowly burning away the memory of the unwanted touch.

He rubs his skin raw, listens Asmodeus’ low voice echo in his head.

It recites him his options, tells him to choose well.

With reddish skin and wet hair he climbs back to the bed and reaches for Alec. The Institute sheets smell like too strong and cheap detergent but Alec’s scent is always the same, thick and comforting.

He never sleeps after the nightmares but for Alec’s sake he keeps up the image of it. It’s a lonely feeling, he knows, to wake up in an empty bed.

After three weeks, Magnus has given up almost all of his hope. Only few unreliable rumors about Asmodeus catch their attention, nothing solid to grasp onto.

Alec never stops assuring him that they can fix it. Magnus doesn’t answer anymore, only smiles, knowing well that even Alec’s unwavering stubbornness couldn’t fix this.

It’s the morning he finds himself holding his burnt fingertips against his lips – the coffee and shards of glass spilled on the floor – when he finally snaps. With jerky movements he cleans up most of the mess, vaguely remembering that burn injuries required cold water for several minutes.

Not having the patience for that, he grabs his jacket and walks out of the Institute.

It’s a crisp morning. He walks for several blocks only to let out some of his pent-up frustration and anger. It’s almost welcome change after the weeks of nearly incapacitating melancholy.

After less than thirty minutes of walking he stops in front of a lovely Italian café with warm colors, cramped terrace, and tempting smell of dark roasted coffee.

He steps in, rubs his fingertips together in his pockets for an old habit, only to realize that he has no cash with him.

A new wave of despair washes over him as the waitress asks for his order. Her black apron is a bit wrinkled and a few wild chestnut colored strands has escaped from her short braids, curling around her round, friendly face.

He feels stupid. This has never been an issue before.

_He has money, for fucks sake._

“Sir?”

Magnus considers a white lie about having second thoughts but decides that it doesn’t matter either way. She doesn’t care about his reasons, no matter how sweet her smile is.

He pushes his hands deeper into his pockets and steps away from the counter, explaining that he forgot his wallet.

It’s the truth, except he doesn’t even own a damn wallet.

He is just about to step outside when a hand grasps his elbow. Magnus jerks his arm away, turns around enough to hear a sheepish apology.

The man must be in his late thirties or early forties, his thick hairline starting to draw back. He is wearing a casual Burberry suit, expensive and unfit at the shoulders. A pair of worn-out Oxfords. Excessively used cologne. Teeth too bright against the tanned skin, dark eyes giving off an intense hue that borders the edge of inappropriate.

He is coming on too strong, too sweet-tongued.

There’s a name mentioned, one that Magnus forgets immediately. He doesn’t offer his own.

His initial reaction for such a sudden and obtrusive behavior is to put some pressure against the man’s throat and educate him about manners, but the stranger is offering to pay his order, and well – coffee is what he came for.

He accepts the proposition, getting a double espresso and the most expensive, cream-frosted muffin available.

He is not even hungry; the latter is only because the guy irritates him.

“I’m not interested in company,” Magnus says as the man attempts to take the seat opposite him. “Just coffee. Sorry.”

The man’s smile falters a bit as he hovers over his out-pulled chair. Off-kilter laughter follows.

“A rough morning, huh? Sharing some troubles might help. And sometimes it’s easier to share them with someone you don’t know.”

There’s another attempt to sit on the chair. Magnus pulls the chair back under the table with his feet.

“No.”

He watches with dull satisfaction how the man’s knuckles turn white as his grip on the chair tightens. The smile stays on, although it’s way colder now.

“I just bought you breakfast.”

Magnus leans back and takes a sip of his steaming coffee. It’s just bitter enough to match his mood. “Yes, you did. Thank you.”

“Don’t you think it deserves some effort from your side?”

“It really, really doesn’t.”

Obviously unused to such a direct and blunt rejection, it takes several seconds for the man to compose his wits. Magnus watches the rapid change of subtle emotions from behind his coffee. The dark eyes display confusion first, then offense, annoyance, until finally settling to poorly masked anger.

He almost expects to be asked outside to settle this.

“You know,” the man finally says, voice lowering as he leans over the table, “I should have seen this. A guy who wears more make-up than cheap whore should be expected to act like one.”

Magnus tilts his chin and smiles, dark and daring.

“Lovely,” he says lowly.

A flash of doubt flickers across the man’s tanned face. He hesitates, if only for a moment.

Magnus is glad to discover that the loss of his magic hasn’t affected this part of his ascendancy.

He had always known how to make the defiant and insolent cower with one glance only, but those who challenged him were usually more aware of his prestige and temperament. His reputation had surely been playing its part, yes, but to be fair it was well-earned.

“Most people would be grateful for this,” the man continues, quieter now.

“Oh, I’m absolutely thrilled.”

“Nobody wants the bitchy ones.”

Magnus lets his smile drop, leans back.

The contact lenses irritate his eyes. This stranger irritates him even more.

“I think you should back off now,” he says, putting a chilly edge to his voice, “before I truly lose my temper.”

The man mutters some cheap insults under his breath but leaves, settling to the plush chairs across the crowded café.

Magnus can still feel eyes boring to the back of his head but ignores the burning gaze.

He got his coffee. That’s the only thing he cares for right now.

Alec arrives fifteen minutes later, stepping inside with his jacket open and phone in his hand. He’s not quite sweaty but conveniently flushed, which is nearly as good. Magnus can’t say that he doesn’t appreciate the sight.

Alec spots him quickly in the clearly less populated café. The rush hour is slowly beginning to settle.

“You didn’t tell me you left,” he says as he sits down across Magnus. His tone is hushed, a little timid but not accusative. “I worried.”

He isn’t angry. Some twisted part of Magnus wishes that he was.

And just how fucked up is that?

He has always been afraid of Alec seeing everything, but sometimes – when his shredded edges make his own hands bleed as he tries to hold himself together – he wants Alec to see it all. To realize exactly how damaged Magnus truly is.

“Sorry,” Magnus says although he can’t make himself to mean it.

He’s still too edgy and choked up to feel anything else than the dark thick indignation that curls in his chest. It’s laced with violence he can’t exactly let out.

Alec nods, slides his hands over the small table to brush his fingers against Magnus’ knuckles.

Such a small thing. It surprises Magnus how quickly it melts his sharpest edges.

“How did you find me?” he asks as he curls his fingers around Alec’s. “May I guess? With those magnificent tracking skills of yours?”

“Um, no. With your phone, actually. Your GPS was on.”

“Oh,” Magnus smirks, “how intriguing.”

Alec narrows his eyes, something dark and vibrant flashing in them.

Magnus’ smile widens. It’s the closest to genuine in weeks.

“What you’re having?” Alec reaches for the untouched muffin between them and takes an enormous bite of it.

“This, my dear Alexander,” Magnus lifts his empty cup, “is a pity coffee.”

Alec lifts his brows, chews and swallows.

“Pity coffee?”

“From him,” Magnus cocks his head at the general direction of the intrusive stranger, certain that he hasn’t left yet. He can still feel eyes boring two holes into the back of his skull.

Alec steals an assessing glance at the man in question, shoulders tensing, if only a little.

“A new rock bottom, I admit,” Magnus snorts. He sounds more crestfallen than humorous, another blow at his scraped pride. “How pathetic is this?”

Alec’s eyes move back to him, softer now, gentle but unyielding.

“Hey,” he says and leans closer, dead-serious and so perfectly earnest. “You’re not pathetic.”

It’s said with such a deep conviction that Magnus wants to believe him.

“Besides, I pity more that guy who thought he could buy you with the price of coffee and muffin – a very good muffin, though.” Alec wolfs down the rest of it in one go, licking the crumbs and frosting from his fingers in an unrefined way that shouldn’t be so utterly charming. “Is it pistachio? Tastes like that chocolate dessert we had in Zakynthos.”

“Yeah, pistachio,” Magnus murmurs, thumb stroking the rim of his empty coffee cup.

It shouldn’t be so disarming, the rough yet remarkably precise way Alec did things.

Strict, sometimes even coarse, ambitious and demanding. And gentle. Even more now as Alec has gradually learned to accept himself. He has more complex opinions now, wider worldview.

Alec is a man who doesn’t only care what he does but also how he does it.

A little rough at the edges, perhaps, but maybe that’s exactly it. No-one has ever before left Magnus so vulnerable without making him feel unsafe.

Magnus blinks, pushes his cup further away. “Ready to go?” he asks.

Alec wipes his hands on his black combat pants. “Yeah.”

The lingering taste of coffee is almost as good as the pistachio-flavored kiss Alec offers him outside.

* * *

   
x.

_1730s, Birmingham, England_

> The Englishman is obnoxious.
> 
> Magnus dislikes him immediately after a few minutes of eavesdropping the conversation between the older warlock and his friend – or acquaintance? A casual stranger?
> 
> With such a prickly personality, who could tell?
> 
> The tavern is crowded and loud. Magnus downs two drinks quickly in his boredom while waiting for his window of opportunity.
> 
> His target rambles on for a small eternity, talking about politics, boring book events and – for the fuck’s sake – paper materials. A full hour goes by without neither of the men filling their pints. In that time, Magnus has emptied five.
> 
> He’s beginning to think he should change to more aggressive tactic when the man across Mr. Fell stands up from his seat and finally heads to fill his pint.
> 
> Before grabbing his drink and sweeping into the empty chair, Magnus makes a quick spell to confuse Fell’s friend to walk out of the tavern.
> 
> Fell looks annoyed at the change of company.
> 
> Not that he seemed too excited about the previous one, either.
> 
> “The seat is taken,” he grunts at Magnus. “Scramble off, kid.”
> 
> Magnus leans back against the chair. He truly needs to start growing some facial hair; at least at the places where he has made no name for himself yet.
> 
> “Are you Mr. Ragnor Fell?”
> 
> A faintest hint of deep green colors briefly the man’s throat and the base of his ear.
> 
> “Is there a problem with your hearing? I said get lost. Do you even have the required age to be here?”
> 
> Magnus doesn’t collect some off-handed insults close to his heart; it’s simply the issue of principle. People will walk over you if you let them.
> 
> “Mr. Fell, I’m interested in a piece of literature I’m heard is in your possession.”
> 
> Fell narrows his eyes and reaches for the sticky, worn out pack of cards, and starts to shuffle them absentmindedly. Magnus waits patiently.
> 
> “What’s your name?”
> 
> “Magnus Bane.” He offers his hand over the table. Fell doesn’t take it.
> 
> What a prick, indeed.
> 
> “Fine, Magnus Bane. I’m giving you an offer: win me in a game and I’ll give it to you, whatever book you are after, free of charge. If you lose? Promise me I’ll never see your face again. And you have to beat me before Damian finds his drunken arse back here.”
> 
> Magnus fights down the grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth.
> 
> “Teach me the rules,” he prompts and draws the alcohol from his veins. This one required unwavering attention. His spells got to be discreet enough so Fell doesn’t pick them up.
> 
> The game itself is simple enough. Playing against an opponent who’s so familiar with it is what makes it challenging.
> 
> Luckily the tavern is dimly lit, which makes it all a fraction easier. Magnus keeps his head low, cheats only enough for him to just and just win the game. He plays his parts well, letting Fell believe he has the upper hand.
> 
> When their game begins to near an end, Fell’s eyes begin to subtly wander around the tavern, searching for his lost friend.
> 
> “Don’t bother looking for him,” Magnus says as he places his ace on top of Fell’s queen, smirking at the dumbfound expression of his opponent. “He is not coming back tonight.”
> 
> Fell’s shoulders tense. Magnus can feel the magic coalescing so he leans in to straighten the situation before it escalates into something more. “No, he went home – I didn’t stab him into the alley, aku bersumpah, I swear.”
> 
> Fell watches him with caution, radiating annoyance. For a brief moment, Magnus worries he pushed it too far.
> 
> “You a warlock?” Fell finally asks.
> 
> Magnus drops his glamour enough for Fell to detect the brief flash of gold in his eyes.
> 
> “It’s a part of common courtesy to show your mark to your fellow warlock before engaging with them. You know, to show good will and to avoid misunderstandings.” Fell spits the words.
> 
> “Oh, I wouldn’t know. I’m not from around here.”
> 
> “Yet you speak our language so well.”
> 
> Magnus smiles. “I’m a fast learner. Now, if you don’t mind, I think you owe me something.”
> 
> “Not so fast,” Fell leans forward, flicks the cards to the corner of the table. “You cheated.”
> 
> Magnus opens his mouth to defend himself.
> 
> “–and don’t bother with the lies, I believe your silver tongue can spill them endlessly. You didn’t play fair, I know it.”
> 
> Magnus shrugs. “You know what they say; if you can’t find the one being hustled, it’s probably you. And your terms didn’t insist a fair game, so…”
> 
> To his surprise, Fell laughs. And it’s not dry and pretentious like the man himself, but surprisingly warm and genuine. Unintentionally, Magnus’ lip twitches, too.
> 
> “Oh dear, it’s been a while I’ve met anyone this bold.” He gulps down the rest of his drink, more foam than liquor. “Okay, let’s hear what piece of written gold you’re after. I decide if it’s worthless enough for me to give away.”
> 
> Magnus braces himself. Time to drop the pretense.
> 
> “Whatever you have on Asmodeus.”

* * *

  
xi.

_Present_

A whole month goes by before the truth finally mutilates his bruised heart, completely and irreversibly.

A month of blindly stumbling around and until this very moment some naïve, tiny, stupid part of him had actually clutched to this nonexistent hope that this was temporary. That he was going to get his magic back, one way or another.

An ugly, broken sound tears up from Magnus’ throat. It’s meant to be laughter – such an idiocy deserved some – but it sounds more like a sob than anything else.

He stares his reflection in the mirror.

It’s a stranger, pathetic one with limp hair curling on its forehead and eyes dull even with the gold in them.

The hand holding the brush is shaking. He lowers the brush next to the tiny glass bottle of kohl. Breathes in, out.

In.

Out.

It doesn’t help. Not at all.

He had thought he could adapt to this loss and use the short time he has left well, but he feels like a alien in his own skin; antic, fragile and unreal.

It’s not that he can’t acclimate or readjust to changes; it’s that he himself can’t change, not in this scale. It’s that he’s so much less it feels like the only thing left of him is the suffocating weight in his chest.

Alec will realize this soon enough and it’s killing Magnus to wait for it.

Which kiss and caress will be the last one?

When will Alec’s gaze begin to change from worried to indifferent?

How long he has the patience to watch Magnus like this?

His hands keep shaking, heart contracting painfully in his chest.

He wants Alexander. Wants to curl around him, smell him, press his head to that warm throat and let the steady beat of Alec’s heart to calm him down.

He wants the only thing he can’t get, not if he doesn’t want to speed up the upcoming inevitability.

Tears cling to his lashes, gluing them together.

He has felt pain before, consuming and excruciating.

He has been lonely before, so deeply alone it felt like he was the only one left in the whole wide world.

He hasn’t, however, lost Alexander before.

Magnus knows it’s going to be the worst of all.

* * *

   
xii.

_1870s, Paris, France_

> Catarina has always been sharp. Words and actions both alike.
> 
> “I can’t keep doing this,” she says. The smell of her blood is vibrant, the metallic tang of it intense enough for Magnus to almost taste it. He doesn’t know how to answer.
> 
> “I can’t, Magnus.”
> 
> He pulls her in, for once lost for words.
> 
> She is right, what can he say?
> 
> She wants to change the world, which is good, Magnus isn’t saying otherwise – but this bloodshed isn’t the right way to try it.
> 
> Two and half weeks later she shows up at his door, dressed in the simple white and grey ensemble of the healers. Magnus’ brows rise in question but he moves away to let her in. She smiles and walks in, proud and confident.
> 
> Magnus says nothing, even though the words are on the tip on his tongue. Is this how you plan on fixing yourself? By fixing others?
> 
> “I thought you wanted to aim a little higher than this?” he asks instead, after taking it all in.
> 
> Her smile doesn’t falter even at the small sting of his words. Her eyes shine with something that can’t be that easily tampered down.
> 
> “But isn’t this the highest one can aim?” she asks as she sits down and crosses her legs at the knees. “Isn’t this–” she points down at her dress “–the place where I would matter the most?”
> 
> Magnus slips his hands to his pockets, not sure how he feels about this sudden inspiration. “I suppose…”
> 
> Catarina smiles even wider and tells him that she begins her working tomorrow at dawn.
> 
> Magnus has seen death, and he knows that so has she, but still he feels this useless need to protect her from this pain. Can’t watch another friend crumble under the weight of these years.
> 
> Next day, he goes to see her anyway.
> 
> The house of the healers smells horrible. It’s too warm and stale and the air reeks of sickness: of sweet fever and sour vomit.
> 
> The wounds smell worst, he learns quickly. Putrid. Like flesh rotting on a still living people. Death breathes along with the sick, gradually bringing down even the loudest and most desperate.
> 
> He hates the place.
> 
> Life seems too feeble there, too fragile.
> 
> He helps sometimes. Or tries to. The young ones mostly, the ones who still should have years and years ahead.
> 
> It’s difficult though. He is clever with the potions and the quiet spells that dull away most of the pain, but more often than not, he simply prolongs inevitable. Human are so fragile, so blind to the life around them.
> 
> Broken bones are the easiest. Close your eyes, sense the raw edges of the bones, pull them together, gently, gently – make it grow, stronger this time.
> 
> Fever is harder. To find the source of it, to understand all the ways a human body can go unbalanced, how easily it can be destroyed. How little it takes, in the end.
> 
> Catarina is even more frustrated than he is. He tells her not to conserve every death so close to her heart. It will suffocate her if she lets it.
> 
> Hell, it almost suffocates him.
> 
> The day he finds familiar eyes in a foreign face he decides to go. His heart is thumping fast against his ribcage as he walks away from the smell of death, knowing that it isn’t her, but oh, what the eyes can reveal.
> 
> Catarina calls after him. He doesn’t turn around.
> 
> He packs quickly and heads to the sea, anxious to breathe in the cold and sharp smell of water, of freedom. The rotten stink and the wan eyes follow his steps and thoughts further than that, though.
> 
> He forces Ragnor to come with him. Quite literally. Ragnor – dearest cabbage, the most qualified house-mouse – complains all the way through, claims that he can’t leave his books and properties unguarded.
> 
> He comes anyway.
> 
> At the first night on the ship Magnus drinks his weight of alcohol. It’s too much even for him. He knows that and drinks even more. He drinks so much that even the ever-horrible rum doesn’t taste anything on his tongue anymore.
> 
> At some point Ragnor pulls him to the back of the ship and snatches the bottle from his hand. He sounds angry. Magnus can’t make about all the low and hissed words that are thrown at him, doesn’t even try.
> 
> His head buzzes. He feels sick but doesn’t even try to ease the discomfort. He forbids Ragnor to try anything like that either. Ragnor only says he doesn’t deserve relief for this anyway. Magnus wants to believe that he doesn’t mean it.
> 
> But he doesn’t deserve it, he knows.
> 
> “Magnus, dear, your eyes,” Ragnor says, frustrated and worried and maybe a tad of desperate, and – Magnus breaks.
> 
> Even the alcohol hadn’t allowed him the numb obscurity, her eyes and memory still ragging his insides apart.
> 
> The world feels like dissolving at the edges, shaking, and the only thing remaining is her soft voice, and Magnus is painfully reminded that _his eyes_ are the very reason she was gone so quickly.
> 
> “–breath–”
> 
> Magnus gasps in a breath, wet and loud. He is shaking, sitting with his back against the wooden back of the ship, clawing at Ragnor’s stiff sailor coat. He can’t hear his own voice but he knows that his wet breaths has turned into sobs now, ugly and uneven, and he’s quite sure that there’s snot in his nose.
> 
> His frayed and worn-out seams aren’t holding the rivers in anymore.
> 
> “My dear, oh, come on,” Ragnor is sitting next to him, pulling him closer, and Magnus takes the gracious offer – that might even not be an offer at all – and inches closer, arms and heart both trembling.
> 
> Ragnor smells like the leather of his books as Magnus buries his face against his shoulder, cheek pressed against shoulder. He sobs quietly, fingertips cold enough that they ache as he grasp Ragnor’s coat.
> 
> How horrendous he is even for wanting to forget her? He should never forget her.
> 
> But oh, how he wants to leave it all behind, to break out of this never-ending limbo of painful memories and guilt.
> 
> _You don’t deserve relief for this._
> 
> He knows.
> 
>    He knows.
> 
> In the morning he wakes up from the back of the deck, still curled up against Ragnor.
> 
> He feels warm despite the cold wind that ruffles his hair.
> 
> “You told me not to ease it,” Ragnor tells him as Magnus stumbles on his shaky feet and fumbles for the railing and throws up to the swirling water.
> 
> “I know,” Magnus croaks and spits after most of the acids have violently forced themselves out of his body. He had forgotten how the aftermath felt, as he had the skills to bypass this phase before it even began: the trembling, heart pounding, head thick and every breath making it ache and spin even worse.
> 
> “Thank you,” he mumbles and slides down from the rail, eyes closing. The swaying of the ship isn’t an easing factor, not at all. He gags a few times during the hour but nothing comes up anymore.
> 
> He isn’t a masochist, but the statement he made last night stays: this one he should suffer through.
> 
> Next evening, he pulls out the disgustingly strong drink again, not quite sure if he’s even through the last episode yet. But it’s okay, because this time he isn’t going to fly over his limit. Not that much, at least.
> 
> Ragnor looks him dead in the eye, and grabs a bottle for himself. “Better keep those lovely eyes shut, my dear friend – unless you desire to join the cats under the deck,” he says and takes a swig.
> 
> Magnus smiles against the rim of the bottle before taking a mouthful of the dark liquor again. It burns in his empty stomach.
> 
> This time the world doesn’t twist and tremble quite as badly, but her eyes remain, seeping under his skin, into his heart.
> 
> The world is unfathomably immense and rich with places, people, experiences, and yet. Yet it feels too finite, as no distance allows him to escape the memory of her.
> 
> He misses her, oh how he misses her.
> 
> _Mama._
> 
> _Mama, saya tidak bisa._
> 
> When he returns to London, year and a half later, he offers Catarina no explanation. She doesn’t require one.
> 
> She has changed, he notices immediately. He wasn’t gone for that long, was he?
> 
> She speaks gently. He doesn’t want to admit that he’s surprised, but he is. She soothes a crying child with ease, brushing a gentle hand against the dirty and feverish forehead, invisible spells easing the pain. Her potions are more potent now, more complicated, difficult even, though it’s still hard to make a difference between death and life.
> 
> She seems to have made peace with that. With herself.
> 
> There’s an old man, in the corner, no bed available. He asks for her to listen, for anyone to listen.
> 
> She does.
> 
> Magnus listens, too, discreetly, while crushing the juice out of Echinacea for her.
> 
> The wrinkles around the old man’s eyes are deep. His eyes are glassy and a bit frantic as he tells her how he lost his daughter for the Black Death years ago, how his wife had followed not long after.
> 
> He tells how he loved and feared the sea when he was young, how he got his first fishing rod when he was just a boy, how stupid and reckless he had been, how full of life.
> 
> He tells how he fears death, how he thought he didn’t, how he practically craved it after his wife’s death. He tells how much he loved her, how deeply, how ocean felt shallow after her.
> 
> He tells how much he misses his family, how goddamn lonely he is, and Magnus’ heart throbs painfully as he continues to chop the leaves of Sage.
> 
> “Do you believe in God?” he asks last, eyes young despite the age that shows around them, so vulnerable, so eager to believe in something greater waiting him in this brief moment before the end.
> 
> She says she does – so convincingly that even a non-believer wouldn’t question the truth in her words.
> 
> In some way, she belongs there.
> 
> The old man is gone by the nightfall, breathing heavily in the corner until he isn’t.
> 
> Magnus stays with Catarina until it’s time for her to leave.
> 
> They walk to his apartment. It’s cold after not being occupied for so long. She creates a warm fire in the oven and sags on the plush chair, pulling her shoes off and stretching her ankles.
> 
> She looks older, he thinks as he pours them a drink.
> 
> She looks wiser, he thinks as he passes it to her.
> 
> For a first time in one and half years, Magnus stops to taste what he’s drinking instead of just letting it burn down his throat.
> 
> She watches him with slightly weary smile pulling her lips. She summons bread and steaming piece of meat and digs into them in a way that no self-respecting lady wouldn’t.
> 
> “It is grounding – sorry, no, no…liberating,” she says as she dips her bread into her drink. Magnus scrunches his nose at the alcohol soaked piece of bread that Catarina devours with great appetite. “To truly understand how temporary everything is. Happiness is. But so is the pain.”
> 
> Magnus hums and leans back.
> 
> He feels all but temporary – stretched so thin, so painfully empty, he craves a place or people to belong to. He feels disconnected; like he has outgrown the world.
> 
> Catarina watches him with curious and gentle eyes. Magnus makes a comment about her eating habits to distract her. She brushes it off with a sharp jab about his drinking.
> 
> “You’ve lost weight,” she says.
> 
> He shrugs and takes a whole mouthful, straight from a bottle this time.
> 
> “I hate to see you like this,” she adds, quietly.
> 
> He doesn’t know what to say to that.
> 
> A part of him is annoyed by her oh-so-certain opinion. Not all is temporary. Pain isn’t, nor is longing. And guilt – guilt most certainly isn’t temporary. It has been there, every step on his way.
> 
> “Even we are temporary,” Catarina says. “In the grand scale of all.”
> 
> The thought scares and comforts Magnus at the same time.
> 
> He can go some day. If he wishes to.
> 
> He clings to that thought, years later, when he takes a shaky step towards the edge.

* * *

  
xiii.

_Present_

It’s not something he just dives head first into.

There’s desperation behind the decision, yes, but it’s still carefully considered. Magnus isn’t young nor imprudent, no matter how unbalanced he is feeling. He truly thinks it through.

It’s the best possible route to take from the limited options he has to choose from. The more he thinks about it, the more all the reasons why he shouldn’t do this keep dissolving away.

He lights the candles up manually.

It takes time and twenty-seven matches and one burnt finger. By the time he has lit them all, wax is already starting to pool on the floor from the first candles.

He is not proud of stealing magic from the ley lines, but he can’t perform the summoning without it.

Containing the magic long enough is tricky. He can’t delay it any further. The metallic jar is already hot to the touch.

Magnus wipes his damp forehead with the back of his hand. He checks his phone before setting it on the side table. Guilt squeezes his stomach when he sees Alec’s name on the bright screen – four messages, two missed calls.

If it backfires, Alec will be lucky to find a body to bury.

If it goes well, Alec will regain the old Magnus back.

It’s untruthful to imply that he is doing this just for Alec, though.

He is doing this for himself, first and foremost. It’s already nearly unbearable without his magic; like trying to live without a soul – but to know that he’s so close losing Alexander, too – it’s tearing him apart. To wait for it. To pretend happiness until the crash comes, and this time the whiplash is going to finally break his neck.

It’s understandable. Alec doesn’t deserve something so damaged.

But knowing that, it doesn’t matter. It hurts all the same, and Magnus is selfish.

Difficult to love, mistrustful with the remains shards of his glass heart.

And so, so selfish.

Magnus grabs the jar, opens it quickly, pours it on the middle of the pentagram. It burns his fingertips and palms anyway.

He throws the empty jar to the corner, waiting for the liquid magic to spread slowly on the carefully drawn lines.

The demon appears with a gust of hot air. Magnus pinches his eyes shut, takes a step back. When he opens them again, the demon is stretching his shoulders in front of him.

It’s surprisingly anticlimactic, considering how fast Magnus’ heart is pounding.

This is it. Magnus has fifteen minutes, if even that, until the remaining candles are out and his change is over.

The man that steps out of the circle is mid fifties, a little round at the middle. The human form of the demon has easy posture and Spanish features; olive skin, thick brows, oily and curly hair combed back, graying beard. The buttons of the classic vest-suit are straining at the stomach.

“Hm,” Valak steps from the circle. The golden rings on his fingers catch the flickering light of the few remaining candles. “I was hoping place a bit… lighter. Oh cariño, it’s been so long since I’ve last seen the sun.”

Magnus stays still, grounds himself to the pulsing pain in his hands.

Valak is prone to luxuries and simple pleasures, living thousand lives through memories only. With four hundred years on his back, Magnus knows he has something to offer.

He is aware that the price might just be a memory of Alec, but wouldn’t it be worth it?

One memory of Alec for a change to create many more with him in the future.

“Magnus Bane,” Valak draws out, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. His accent it thick. “It hasn’t been that long since our last meeting. I’m beginning to think I’m your favorite. _Y por una buena razón_.”

“You just might be,” Magnus tries to smile. He needs to get this right from the beginning.

Although Valak is no less cruel or manipulating than other Greater Demons, at least he doesn’t hold any personal grudges to Magnus. There’s no other greater demon who might give him what he wants.

“So,” Valak hops to sit on the side table. “What are you asking? Or, perhaps more important, what are you offering? The most delicious meal, perhaps? Have you ever tasted ćevapi? Ah, how can something so simple taste so delicious?”

There’s a greedy flicker in the end of the question. Valak is starving for new memories.

“Aren’t you curious of what I’m asking, first?” Magnus can’t afford try to cheat with this one, as tempting as it is to settle the price beforehand. Valak must be pleased with the trade, or Magnus might receive unsteady or damaged product.

Valak cocks his head to the side. “Please, do tell.”

Magnus unclenches his fists.

It’s a bad time to have second thoughts.

“Your magic.”

Valak stares him now with newfound curiosity. It’s more than little unnerving.

“How is your dear old papá, Magnus?”

Magnus swallows. “I couldn’t tell.”

Valak stands up again, unblinking eyes still focused on Magnus. “Oh, you truly live to surprise, don’t you, niño?”

Magnus doesn’t answer. He just wants to hear the price. He already knows he’s willing to pay it.

“Can’t remember the last time I’ve got such a wide field of memories to pick from. Okay, let’s see…perhaps the time you felt most loved, no?”

It shouldn’t hit so hard, given the fact that Magnus knew to wait for it.

He swallows around the word yes. _Alec will create new ones for you, just take the deal._

“Or,” Valak steps closer. “How many years did you spend with your father as a child?”

Magnus’ thoughts halt, and for a single second, everything stills.

All the knowledge and advantage he has on Asmodeus versus his most precious memory of Alexander.

If his father were safely locked down in Edom, Magnus wouldn’t even hesitate. But the chances are, no one else will be willing or powerful enough to try to banish Asmodeus from earth. Magnus did it once, and although he will not have the same strength as he did last time, he would at least know Asmodeus’ pressure points.

But to think it rationally; he was lucky in the first time around.

Nobody wins the lottery twice in a row.

“Twenty-five years,” Magnus says.

Valak smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Magnus has to admit he’s slightly surprised. Valak isn’t usually one into the drama surrounding the underworld throne.

“So, what do you say? It is, after all, a grand favor. It requires something just as monumental in return.”

Magnus nods. “Yes. You can have them.”

Valak watches him intently before nodding in return.

“I warn you to be cautious with new magic. It won’t be similar to your old magic. It has different…hm, how do I put it – quirks. It will not be easy to tame.”

Magnus feels exhilarated. He’s going to get his soul back. Different version of it, perhaps, but magic nonetheless. He is already broken so he can mold into whatever he’s going to get.

“I’m careful,” he whispers.

Valak laughs, cups Magnus’ cheek with one palm. “Oh, niño. Coming here to ask for this, I’d say you’re anything but.”

Magnus doesn’t get to answer as Valak is already leaning in.

“Say goodbye to daddy.”

* * *

   
xiv.

_Two months ago_

> “You make me better,” Alec murmurs against Magnus’ side, then presses his warm palm against Magnus’ hip, spreading his fingers wide.
> 
> A shiver runs down Magnus’ spine. A reaction to Alec’s words or touch? Perhaps both.
> 
> “I wanna be a better person because of you.”
> 
> Magnus closes his eyes against the morning sun, allows himself to bask in Alec’s attention. He can’t recall a time he has felt this safe in someone’s arms.
> 
> “Flattery gets you nowhere, Alexander,” he whispers, throat suddenly tight.
> 
> Alec smiles against Magnus’ hip, bites gently into the flesh there. “How about the truth, then?”

* * *

  
xv.

_Present_

He has woken up unpleasantly one too many times in the past few months.

First time, it was the cold. Now it’s the pounding head-ache that’s cracking his skull in half. He hadn’t forgotten that much memory-extraction hurt, but to this point? His limbs are aching, too, deep in the bones. Like growing pains.

Magnus groans and sits up on the floor. The room is dim, wax on the floor long ago solidified.

He squeezes at the bridge of his nose, lowers his head slightly to ease the nausea. His mind feels raw where the years of his youth have been taken.

He still remembers Asmodeus from the later years, but those encounters are rare. He feels like he barely knows his father anymore. Not a great loss.

But. There’s still no magic.

Something like panic hastens his breathing.

No. Nothing. No familiar pressure in his bones.

An ugly sound tears out of his throat, high-pitched and raw. He falls back on the ground, curls into himself there.

This was his last change – his last fucking change – and it failed him. These weren’t ordinary aches that came with Valak’s deals. This was Valak’s magic searching a place to settle in his bones, _and finding_ _none_.

It was known that unfamiliar magic could be difficult to adjust to, but that it rejected him completely?

He can’t find strength to get up.

Can’t find strength to anything.

He almost hopes that the Valak’s magic would’ve been too much for his mortal body.

* * *

   
xvi.

_Two hours ago_

> “You know how I feel about this,” she shakes her head.
> 
> “Yes, I do,” Magnus says, counting the candles in his bag.
> 
> Catarina twiddles with the flexible rubber tube of the i.v.–infusion. There’s blood on the hem of her dark blue scrubs.
> 
> “What is Alec saying about this?”
> 
> Magnus doesn’t stop counting.
> 
> “Does he even know? Magnus? For god’s sake, you gotta tell him–”
> 
> “Dear, lovely Catarina,” he stops her there. “It’s not his decision. Nor yours. I’m sorry.”
> 
> There’s a plea in her eyes, something Magnus’ hasn’t witnessed often. “Please, Magnus. I know you’re hurting, but this isn’t the way to fix it.”
> 
> “It’s only way I know.” He takes the cold metallic container she summoned for him and places it carefully on top of the candles.
> 
> “Magnus.”
> 
> “Oh, don’t fret. You’ve got a room full of patients waiting for you; they need help much more than I do.”
> 
> Her frown doesn’t disappear.
> 
> “You are so goddamn perceptive about everything,” she sighs. “Everything but yourself.”
> 
> He kisses her cheek. “Thank you, darling. I’ll be fine.”

* * *

  
xvii.

_Present_

Alec finds him an hour later, which means Catarina told him. Magnus specifically asked her not to, but she has always been frustratingly bad at taking orders from anyone except the doctors.

He pays no attention to the door being opened. Doesn’t react to his name being called.

There are hands on the back of his head, under his chin, against the base of his throat. The warm hands are rougher than usual.

He makes a noncommittal sound at Alec’s question about if he was okay. There’s a strange edge to Alec’s voice, like he’s close to breaking down. Magnus has never heard him curse like that, not even during sex.

“How did you find me?” Magnus asks quietly, eyes still on the floor.

“GPS,” comes the curt answer.

Oh. Again.

Hands curl under his armpits and pull him up.

Magnus sways on his feet, the sudden movement making him lightheaded and sick. Alec is pulling him away, fingers digging painfully around his bicep.

“What the hell are you doing?” Alec is hissing and, oh – he is angry.

Not slightly pissed, not simply annoyed, nothing like Magnus has witnessed before.

Alec is truly fed up.

Magnus’ throat closes up. Something bitter is swelling in his chest, bubbling under the temporary numbness.

Magnus doesn’t want to face Alec now. He can’t take the disappointment and irascibility – from anyone else, yes, perhaps, but not from Alec. And especially not now when he is so near of the collapse.

He tries to jerk his arm away but Alec’s hold is abiding.

“Alec.”

He tries to put an edge to his voice – a warning – but isn’t certain that any sound at all comes from between his dry lips.

Alec’s eyes are burning. There’s something painful and vast trembling in them.

Magnus’ fingertips are tingling. Breathing feels oddly difficult, tongue heavy. The world is buzzing, all of his focus now centering down on Alec’s fiery eyes and his near-painful grip he has around Magnus’ arm.

“Why would you do that? Magnus, why–” Alec grits his teeth, choking up on his words. “Do you have some kind of a death wish? Magnus – fucking hell –”

Magnus sucks a sharp breath in.

_Does he?_

He lets the air out with high-pitched, choked up sound, something that’s meant to be laughter of some kind. He tries to pull away from Alec again.

The fucked up thing is, he can’t tell?

Magnus wants this to end but he doesn’t want to die.

He wants to stop feeling this way.

He wants to regain some control.

He wants Alec to stop looking at him like a broken, damaged thing.

But he is truly cornered now, isn’t he? A prisoner of his own inability. Magic was a part of his very soul, how can he possibly try to explain that to Alec? How can he explain the pain of something so vital being ripped away? How can he explain that he isn’t sure who he is anymore?

How can Alec not see that he isn’t looking at Magnus Bane anymore, but into the hollow eyes of the starved up boy with no name instead. 

Magnus Bane is his creation, what he built of himself.

Who is he supposed to be when all of that has burned down? He has used four hundred years to refine his character; he can’t rebuild himself in few months, or even in few years.

Alec is saying something, voice still sharp in a way Magnus has ever heard from him before.

Magnus ducks his head, tries to rub his shaky palm against his brow – mostly to cover his eyes. Hand closes around his wrist, pulls it away.

One single sentence captures his attention:

“–I could’ve lost you–”

It’s so horribly bittersweet that Magnus can’t take it – he isn’t worth this grief.

“And how big of a loss that would’ve been, exactly?” he blurts out before he can think it further.

Alec freezes.

Magnus is in vain trying to swallow around the lump in his throat.

“Magnus–” there’s a new kind of sadness in Alec’s voice, and if Magnus thought he couldn’t handle Alec’s anger, this was so much worse. This pained way he’s saying Magnus’ name.

“Don’t ever – ever say that again, please. I love you, I can’t lose you, Magnus, I can’t–”

With an inaudible crack, Magnus breaks.

“But you already did!” he snaps and violently wrenches his wrist and arm from Alec’s bruising holds. He falters a little, shoulder scraping against the wall. “Look at this,” he hates how high his voice goes, how it cracks in the end, “this isn’t what you signed up for.”

Alec steps cautiously forward again, placating. This suddenly calm behavior is somehow holding both, the fear-laced anger and deep sadness, in it.

Magnus can’t stand the depth of love that shines through it all. It’s dark and earthy in Alec’s eyes, unwavering and unconditional – and Magnus is so undeserving of it.

Alec shouldn’t love him when he’s like this.

“I won’t leave,” Alec says, low and oh, so painfully certain.

Magnus exhales, runs his palms through his hair and over his eyes, probably smearing and messing up the kohl. His hands are sweaty and shaking, head pounding in the presto-beat of his heart.

He is unraveling fast. Panic is clawing at his chest and clogging up his throat.

He needs to get away, away from Alec, so he can let it burn out alone.

Alec, however, is pulling him back before he can even properly begin to leave. “Magnus, don’t–”

Magnus yanks himself free again, pushing against Alec’s chest so he ends up stumbling a few steps backwards. Magnus’ heart constricts at the very second he does so, yet he can’t seem to stop spiraling.

“You can’t help me nor fix me, Alec, so stop trying!” His eyes are burning. “It’s not worth it.”

I’m not worth the love you’re so selflessly offering, and we both know it.

Magnus is sure, so fucking sure, that this will be it – that he has finally thrown in the final straw – but Alec is shaking his head, stepping closer again, and why in the love of God isn’t he leaving already?

“It’s not worth it, I’m not worth it–”

“Stop.” Alec’s voice is hard – hard and so horribly pained.

 Magnus tries to smile, unsure how well it goes. It breaks quickly as he draws in another wavering breath.

“Alec, come on,” he whispers, “open your eyes already.”

Alec is close again, warm fingers closing around Magnus’ left wrist.

Magnus withdraws, ready to shove Alec away again. “Just go – come on, Alec. Please.”

Magnus knows himself – knows how venomous he is, even without meaning to – and he wants to spare Alec from the collateral damage.

If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s Alec. Brave, loyal, beautiful Alexander.

He is surprised by how swiftly Alec moves, pushing Magnus backwards, gripping under Magnus’ armpits so he doesn’t stumble down. A few steps later Magnus’ back hits the wall with a small ‘ah’ slipping from between his lips: the sound of air leaving his lungs.

Alec is pressing so goddamn close, his breath damp against Magnus’ cheek. Magnus shudders, chokes up with the safe and secure feeling of Alec, warm around him, always so steady.

No.

He needs to leave. Before he does or says something irreversible.

He tries to bodily push Alec away, claws Alec’s arms and shoulders, but he doesn’t have enough leverage.

“Alec, let go,” he keeps pushing, trashing against the steady hold. “Don’t let me drag you down with me, come on–”

His limbs feel heavy and uncoordinated, and Alec only slightly budges against Magnus’ violent outburst.

“You can fight me,” Alec whispers in the curve of Magnus’ jaw, breaking Magnus’ resolve even further. Or what little is left of it. “You can fight if it helps, but I won’t leave.”

_What a stupid, stupid Nephilim._

With that thought Magnus goes slack, trembling in the waves of his wet, near soundless sobs. He keeps clawing at Alec’s shoulders, but weither is it to push him away or pull him closer, he can’t tell anymore.

“I don’t know what to do,” he murmurs, feeling and sounding horribly strangled. There’s wetness on his cheeks. He can’t remember when he started crying. His nostrils are full of snot, and Magnus is distantly relieved that his nose isn’t running just yet.

He draws in another wet, shaky breath, and buries his face in Alec’s neck, “I don’t know what to do, Alec – I don’t know...”

Alec tightens his grip around Magnus’ aching ribs.

“Please…” he doesn’t know what he is asking anymore.

“You’ll never lose me,” Alec murmurs, voice sounding wet against Magnus’ temple. “If you only believe one thing I say, believe that. I love you. God, how much I love you.”

Magnus makes a wounded noise in his throat. How come Alec finds the strength to keep protecting his battered heart so selflessly, over and over again? Trying to stubbornly hold it together.

If someone can, it’s him.

* * *

   
xviii.

_1890s, New York, United States_

> Magnus draws a slow breath in, straightens his spine, and relaxes his shoulders.
> 
> “Kneel,” he breathes out.
> 
> “What did you say to me?” comes a breathy question.
> 
> Magnus opens his eyes, watches the man through the layer of gold, feeling sick twist in his stomach for how much he must look like his father at the moment.
> 
> Don’t think about it, shove it down, deep, **deeper** –
> 
> “I said,” he repeats, knowing exactly how white are his teeth; somehow fitting to the feline threat in his eyes, “kneel.”

* * *

  
xix.

_Present_

They don’t make it back to the Institute.

One minute, Alec is holding onto his wrist, walking on his side – next, he’s alone, fingers curling around air instead of Alec’s sleeve.

The sidewalk is empty. Deserted from all the people in one second.

Magnus has a hunch. He wishes he’s not right about it.

“You disappoint me, Magnus,” comes behind him, low and falsely sweet.

If he weren’t so emotionally exhausted, Magnus would probably be much more scared than he currently is.

“Yeah, well. You’re not the first person I let down today.” He sounds exactly how he feels; like he cried every single emotion out of himself – stuffy, dull, and indifferent.

“Why did you do it?” Asmodeus demands.

Magnus is fairly sure he’s referring to the deal with Valak. That doesn’t mean he knows what kind of answer is expected from him.

“Because I could?” he tries. “Because I wanted to?”

“No.”

Oh, okay. Both wrong, then.

Asmodeus is now directly behind him. Magnus can feel him breathing against his neck. It makes him slightly sick to his stomach. This wasn’t about parent’s protection, or even exploitation – this was about ownership. His father saw him as a property, plain and simple.

“You wouldn’t have gotten this desperate so fast. It’s the Nephilim, isn’t it? Were you afraid that he won’t see you as valuable anymore?” Asmodeus hums lowly. There’s hubris in his next words, a twisted pride. “As if he could ever be worth of my son.”

Magnus stays still, unsure what’s expected of him.

Asmodeus sighs. Air flickers, but the road stays empty.

“You used to be so much better than this. Look how he has ruined you.”

It’s strange, to know that Asmodeus has a connection to him that he doesn’t remember. Magnus, however, remembers his later years, how he resented himself and the time with his father. That’s why he can almost easily say;

“You ruined me long before him.”

Hand snaps around his throat faster than a python’s strike, squeezing around his windpipe. The street around them disappears with a blinding, soundless light, and Magnus finds himself, yet again, pushed against a wall.

He tries to gasp in some air, but the fingers are like iron bands around his throat, bruising, not giving in an inch.

He had forgotten how terrifying his father’s rage could be.

“Are you truly so heedless about your own heritage? That you take any magic you can scrape for yourself?” Asmodeus seethes between his teeth, pivotal pupils making his acrimony even more animalistic.

His hold around Magnus’ throat is tightening by the second. Asmodeus is pushing him up against the wall, higher, harder, until Magnus has to balance himself on his toes.

There’s something warm and sticky all of sudden, a rivulet running down to the back of his neck from his head where it’s scraped against the rough wall.

He doesn’t remember much, but he remembers fearing his father. For decades. For centuries.

For a good reason, it seems.

“Your magic, it belongs to me. You belong to me. You don’t disrespect me like this, humiliate me by pretending you could live just fine without it.”

There’s white static in Magnus’ head. His eyes flutter shut as he claws against the hand around his throat.

Half of him – the sane one – wants to beg, to slump down until his knees hit the floor.

The other half, the one he probably inherited from Asmodeus himself, wants to push the demon further. Dare him to do what he threatens and just snap his neck.

“ _Look at me!_ ”

Magnus’ eyes flash open in a reflex, an instinct so embedded into him that even removal of his memories couldn’t attenuate it.

_Never defy him._

Asmodeus’ eyes are a reflection of his owns. The details of his face are already blurring at the edges from the lack of oxygen. The world is shrinking around him, melting away.

The hand around his throat eases up, no longer cutting his airway. It stays around his throat, though, oppressive and threatening.

Magnus inhales greedily, takes in air with unsteady gasps. The strength seems to leave his muscles altogether now and he slumps further against the wall, panting like he’s run a marathon. His cheeks are still slightly moist, eyes red-rimmed, and he absolutely hates how weak he must look. How drained.

“Do you know where we are?” Asmodeus asks him.

Magnus blinks, slowly looks around his father’s hovering figure.

And yes, he recognizes the street. The buildings are taller now, and the stone beneath his feet used to be mud, but the structure is still the same.

This was the village he lived after his mother died.

“I told you to never forget where you come from.”

Magnus remembers no such words. It must show in his face, because something shifts in Asmodeus’ eyes, and his fingers tighten around Magnus’ sore throat again.

“What memories did you give away?”

For a brief second, Magnus considers about lying.

“All I had with you.”

* * *

   
 xx.

_Three months ago_

> Magnus closes his eyes, breathes out a sigh as he goes lax against the sweaty sheets.
> 
> His hips and thighs are aching in the most exquisite way. He doesn’t deny that he relishes the pleasure that edges pain sometimes, loves how it intensifies the high of it.
> 
> “You will be the death of me,” he murmurs under his breath, eyes still closed.
> 
> Alec shifts next to him. Warm and sweaty fingers spread across Magnus’ ribs.
> 
> “Or your redemption?”

* * *

 

  
_Gentle hands, strong heart, burning bones_  
_I guess you could call me driver of the history_  
_I guess you could say that love is the reason I've thrived_

_\- Remember This, Abby S_

 

**Author's Note:**

> PREVIOUSLY (plot-wise):  
> \- The timeline is set on season 2, where Azazel has escaped.  
> \- Azazel invades Magnus' loft, demanding for the Mortal Cup, forcing Alec and Magnus to escape (to Spain, don't ask why).  
> \- They try to figure out how to banish Azazel. While doing that they find out Sebastian's real identity.  
> \- They pin Azazel's location to a beach in NY, where Alec manages to kill Azazel (so canon, ay) but in the process, Asmodeus is freed. So, this one continues from the scene in the beach...


End file.
